


Sex Spices (Grounded)

by cortexikid



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (of sorts), Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Emotionally Repressed, Friends to Lovers, Geralt and Jaskier inhale some magic spices, Hand Jobs, Idiots in Love, M/M, Pining, Sex Magic, Sex Pollen, Sharing a Bed, that encourage them to give into their urges
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:27:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28131642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cortexikid/pseuds/cortexikid
Summary: “You’re fine, it’s fine,” Jaskier muttered under his breath as molten heat began to warm him from the inside out, “it’s just some...some silly magic, you’ve had worse. Gone through worse. You can—"Geralt leaned down to speak to the inn-keeper, stooping over at an angle.Jaskier’s eyes locked on the line of his shoulders, trailed down the length of his back to halt over his ever-surprisingly bountiful derriere.“Shit.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 25
Kudos: 410





	Sex Spices (Grounded)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [majel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/majel/gifts).



> Hi! So, I’ve never written for Witcher before. This is a birthday present for my friend [ itsmajel ](https://itsmajel.tumblr.com/) (happy birthday, lovely!) who convinced me to watch the Netflix series and is fully responsible for my fixation on it now. But in saying that, I’m no expert of the canon so there may be errors. (I will play the game and read the books some day, promise!)
> 
> This came about when she was out shopping in a supermarket and saw a jar labelled “Sex Spices (Grounded)” and I thought it sounded like something from the sex pollen trope haha. Also, I realised on my watch of the show that some of the languages’ word usage is either Irish-esque or direct Irish (Gaeilge/Gaelic), so I sprinkled some (probably bad translations, I’m woefully out of practice) in here. Enjoy!

“That satchel has always mesmerised me.” 

Geralt of Rivia refused to turn and regard his companion, instead focussing on fixing Roach’s saddle.

“Hmm.”

“No, no,” Jaskier’s voice rose an octave as he darted around Geralt to stand in front of him and the horse, walking backwards, “seriously. It must be one of the wonders of the world with the way you lug it about.”

Something flashed in Jaskier’s golden eyes. 

“Can I take a peek inside?” 

“No.” 

Geralt’s tone was gruff, and final, as was his wont. 

That did not even slightly deter Jaskier, as was his wont.

“Oh come on, Geralt. Please? How long have we known each other? How many adventures have we embarked upon, together? How many times have I watched you chug down vial after vial like a man parched of ale? And yet I still haven’t gotten a decent look—”

“No, Jaskier.” 

And so that was that.

The topic was dropped.

~*~

The topic was not dropped.

It probably didn’t help matters that they were currently seeking a local herbalist, so Geralt wasn’t all too surprised to find Jaskier eyeballing every glass container with unbounded glee as soon as they set foot in the enigmatic hut. 

“So many colours,” he whispered under his breath, scouring the shelves with childlike enthusiasm. 

Geralt steadily ignored him in favour of greeting his old friend, a wizened old woman with pearl-white hair and impish smirk that erred on the side of unnerving. This suited Jaskier just fine. He didn’t need the grumpy-guts scrutinizing his every move anyway. He moved deeper into the back of the hut, spurred on by the almost eerie glow of the exotic lotions, potions and...shrunken heads? He jumped away from what he had mistakenly thought were cloves of garlic, suppressing a shudder, but not discouraged in his exploration. 

As he reached the back shelf, he leaned down to examine the labels, recognising some of the names from glimpses of Geralt's stash. 

Bindweed. Black blood. Golden Oriole. Shrike. White honey. 

_Spíosraí gnéis._

“Huh,” Jaskier's eyes lingered on that last one, its name unfamiliar to him. 

“Spees-ree-guh-nace,” he tried to sound out, not immediately recognising the language, as he gingerly picked it up, shaking the vile a little in his hand. 

“Jaskier!” Geralt practically growled, storming over towards him, reaching out to snatch it off him when a puff of smoke, a haze of red and orange blew straight up into their faces. 

Jaskier blinked, letting out a soft cough and loud sneeze as he wearily eyed his less than impressed best friend. 

“Imigh leat, amadán,” the herbalist muttered under her breath, shooing him away from the shelves. 

“Uh, thank you,” Jaskier smiled, giving a half bow.

“It wasn’t a compliment,” she and Geralt replied in unison. 

Jaskier straightened, blinking,“Oh.” 

“What exactly have we inhaled?” Geralt ground out through clenched teeth, still glaring at him. 

The herbalist gave a cackle, throwing her head back in what could only be described as unreserved delight. 

“One of Yennefer’s favourites,” she winked at Geralt, “ _Spíosraí gnéis._ ” 

Geralt scowled, his face unreadable.

With a nod and a smirk, the herbalist turned to Jaskier, “Let’s just say the spices...hone your more base urges and brings them forth." 

Well, that couldn’t be good.

Jaskier winced, his face an open book. 

“Is there any way to reverse it?” Geralt asked, something laced in his tone that Jaskier couldn’t quite place.

He tilted into him, reaching out towards his satchel. 

“Oh, you’re telling me there’s nothing in your magic little—ow!”

He really should have expected his hand to be deftly smacked away, he really should. And yet.

The herbalist quirked an eyebrow, gaze flickering between them. 

“Nothing immediately at hand, no. But…” she leaned in, voice dropping rather conspiratorially (and a tad too dramatically in Jaskier’s opinion - he should know) “there _is_ a way to abate its effect.” 

Jaskier watched as Geralt shifted his weight a little as his apparent ‘old friend’ paused again.

_Definitely a flare for the dramatic, this one._

(Something which Jaskier probably would have respected under literally any other circumstance.) 

“You could,” the herbalist continued lightly, inspecting the considerable amount of dirt under her fingernails, “give in to your urges.” 

Something twisted in Jaskier’s gut at that. A tug, low and hot, as a flush crept up his neck to rest on his cheeks.

_Surely she doesn’t actually mean what that sounded li—_

He made the mistake of looking to Geralt, then. For support, for some confirmation that she was just pulling their leg, only to suddenly feel his entire being drawn to him, mind, body, essence, as if dragged by some invisible rope attached to a galloping Roach.

Blue eyes met gold.

_Uh oh._

“I suggest you both head to the inn for the night. You won’t want prying eyes on whatever... _desires_ the spíosraí bring to light,” she continued, an air of smugness about her as she made her way back to the front of the hut. 

“A pleasure as always, Witcher. I can honestly say, your visits are never boring.”

~*~

In their many years of friendship, Julian Alfred Pankratz had bore witness to various different versions of Geralt of Rivia. He had seen him determined to a fault, hounding to obsession, furious beyond compare, distraught beyond belief and...many other variants that those who did not know him, would be shocked to find the seemingly-stoic, "incapable of feeling" Witcher capable of.

And through every iteration, every glimmer, every different shade of his friend that was revealed in their time together, Jaskier savoured it. Knew that he was privy to something special, something not many got to see before him or would after. His old friend was hardly an open book, but rather a closely-guarded satchel with intriguing wonders that Jaskier still longed to explore after all this time.

But this particular version...this facet of the Witcher he had come to call his best friend, _this_ he had never seen before.

Geralt was spooked.

He hadn't so much as glanced in Jaskier's direction in the last ten minutes, let alone verbally acknowledged him. That in and of itself may not have been too surprising, too troubling, but the quiet, almost hesitant, "You wait here," muttered under his breath certainly was. 

Jaskier watched him approach the innkeeper, an odd feeling rising from the depths of his stomach. 

A pull. 

An ache. 

A...yearning to follow him. 

To glue himself to his side and never—

He shoved it down, forcing his feet to the floor as he took a deep breath to try and steady himself. 

“You’re fine, it’s fine,” he muttered under his breath as molten heat began to warm him from the inside out, “it’s just some...some silly magic, you’ve had worse. Gone through worse. You can—"

Geralt leaned down to speak to the inn-keeper, stooping over at an angle. 

As if compelled by some unseeable force, Jaskier’s eyes locked on the line of his shoulders, trailed down the length of his back to halt over his ever-surprisingly bountiful derriere.

“Shit.” 

He was usually more surreptitious about ogling his best friend. More subtle. Or as subtle as Jaskier was ever capable of being, anyway. But now...now he openly stared.

And couldn’t seem to stop himself.

A warmth stirred low in his gut. 

“Oh, no.” 

_Not good, not good, not—_

Geralt’s eyes flashed over to him, as if reading his thoughts. 

Jaskier’s heart leapt into his throat at the idea. 

Something indecipherable passed over Geralt’s face as he half-listened to whatever the inn-keeper was informing him of, his gaze locked onto Jaskier with an intensity the bard was wholly ill-equipped for, even after all these years together.

After what felt like centuries but could only have been a few seconds, Geralt’s eyes fell back to the inn-keeper, nodding curtly and snatching up a key. Jaskier let out a breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding.

Geralt brushed past him, so close that Jaskier could feel heat wafting from him, but not close enough to make contact. He suppressed a shudder anyway. Silently, he followed his friend who was even more reticent than usual, up the rickety, rotting staircase, towards a door at the very end of a long, narrow corridor. With a grunt, Geralt rearranged their belongings on his shoulder to slide the key into the lock. Jaskier, who always had a lax view on the idea of personal space, now found himself almost glued to the breadth of Geralt’s shoulders, the ache, yearning for...closeness, overwhelming him. 

The door edged open with an ominous creak. 

Jaskier swallowed, his throat drier than Geralt’s rarely expressed wit as he leaned closer to peer over Geralt’s shoulder into the dark room. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt grumbled through clenched teeth, and it was then that the bard noticed his friend’s eyes were closed, his nostrils flared, his jaw painfully clenched, “get inside.” 

Something hot unfurled low in Jaskier’s abdomen at that almost growl. He carefully stepped around him, noting his posture, his entire body wound tighter than the strings of Jaskier’s lute. 

His eyes landed on the bed like an anchor dropped to sea. 

The singular bed. In the singular, cramped room. 

“Uh, Geralt—” 

The door shut with a loud snap. 

“Don’t.”

Geralt’s eyes were still closed, his jaw still clenched.

“Do not say a word. Not one word, do you understand, Jaskier?” 

Heart leaping in his chest, something that felt an awful lot like trepidation rose within Jaskier. Silently, he nodded, biting his bottom lip, watching as Geralt let out a soft, slightly uneven breath and finally opened his eyes.

Even in the dim room, alight with nothing but the moon through the small window, Jaskier was taken aback by how ablaze they were, the yellow like melted gold basking by a fire. 

Quietly, Geralt crossed the small space and began lighting candles, bathing the room in a gentle glow that complemented the moonlight. Jaskier’s eyes danced along that strong, broad back, trailing down those sturdy arms and lingered on those weathered hands, the same hands that had seen so much hard work, violence, and pain. 

He wanted to touch them.

He wanted them to touch him. 

All over.

Jaskier was so, so fucked.

_Don’t think about fucking, don’t think about fucking, don’t think about—_

“So, heh,” words began spilling from his mouth against his will, arms waving erratically as he paced back and forth across the floor, avoiding looking at either the brooding hulk of a man or the very enticing bed, “that herbalist was a bit loony, eh? A few steps short of a staircase, right? I mean no offense to your friend, Geralt, but I think she was having us on about that magic spice nonsense, don’t you? ‘Cause really, I don’t feel any—”

“Jaskier.” 

A looming shadow fell over him, halting him in his tracks. 

He swallowed, gaze slowly raising. 

Their eyes locked.

A surge of what could have been bravery but was more than likely mindless-arousal, shot through Jaskier, compelling him to ask, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Do you... _feel anything_ , Geralt?” 

Geralt’s mouth opened and closed, ever so slightly, several times before his jaw clenched.

Jaskier hungrily traced the sharp cut of it with his eyes.

“I need to bathe.” 

With that, he shoved past Jaskier and into the adjoining room that housed a small, wooden bath. 

“Oh. Okay,” the bard practically squeaked from directly behind him, having obviously followed, hot on his heels. 

_You’ve helped him bathe before, Jaskier. You’ve seen him naked many times. You can do this._

“Well,” he cleared his throat, trying and failing to get his voice down an octave, “I can scrub your—”

“No.”

“ _No?_ ” 

He didn’t sound petulant. He did not. 

Geralt crossed the room, lighting a few more candles, the soft glow casting shadows against his taut frame. 

Jaskier let out a breath.

“But I always—”

“Not tonight.” 

Those two words shouldn’t have stung with the tenacity of a thousand bees. And yet…

“Very well,” he forced himself to reply with a wave that attempted and failed to be dismissive, “I’ll just go and...entertain myself, shall I?” 

Geralt didn’t turn around.

“Hmm.”

“Eloquent as ever,” Jaskier snarked before he could stop himself.

Slowly, Geralt turned. 

“Don’t be a child, Jaskier.” 

His voice was low. Raspy. Deeper than Jaskier had ever heard it as he leaned over and began filling the bath with the nearby pails of water. 

A shiver racked Jaskier’s entire body despite his rising annoyance.

A silence befell them, draping over the room like the heaviest cloak in the coldest of winters.

“Fine. I’ll just…” he gestured over his shoulder, taking a step towards the bedroom, resigning himself to a night of arousal denial and pointed silence.

“My back.” 

Jaskier froze at the quiet admission, noting that all ire had bled from his friend's tone.

“I'll need...assistance with my wound.” 

Ah, yes. The wound Geralt had sustained earlier that day from the Kikimora that had been roaming the woods. Jaskier had kept his distance of course, but he had still been close enough to catch sight of those nightmarish claws tearing into Geralt’s flesh like a ravenous man would a chicken leg at a banquet. 

It had not been pretty. 

Geralt had made use of his ever mysterious satchel and Jaskier had staunched the blood flow with one of his coveted handkerchiefs gifted to him by a particularly amorous concubine of Lord something-or-other a decade prior. 

It had been a trying day. 

And that was before they had been dosed with the cryptic spice of Geralt’s herbalist friend. 

“I’ll...need you to get my back,” Geralt spoke to the floor, looking pained to have uttered every single syllable. 

_Need._ It wasn’t a word the Witcher said often. So to hear it twice in as many breaths was something. _The last thing I want is someone needing me_...rang in Jaskier’s ears as he wondered, _But what about you needing them?_

“Very well,” he replied, surprised at how steady he sounded in spite of his inner crisis, “call me when you need me.” 

With that, he forced himself to turn on his heel and storm out of the room, closing the door with a (probably undignified) snap. He sucked in uneven gasps as he fell back against the door, sagging to the floor, his knees no longer willing to support the rest of his body. 

_Bollocks._

Geralt was...intoxicating. 

Well, he always had been, but usually, Jaskier was able to hone some semblance of self-control around him during their many adventures together. They had shared living quarters alone many times, for heaven’s sake. Cramped, tiny tents. Inns with only one bed as tonight. They had slept on forest floors mere inches from each others’ faces, huddled together for warmth against the most bitter of elements, bathed in the same steaming waters as naked as the day they were born…

And yet, tonight, it was no longer possible for Jaskier to ignore how he felt, how he had always felt, simmering underneath arguments and banter, around his best friend. 

_Fucking spices._

And now he had gone and put his foot in it by practically insisting that he help Geralt bathe. 

_I must have a death wish._

He wasn’t precisely sure how long he sat slumped on the floor of the inn. It had felt like hours and seconds all at once, but eventually, he heard Geralt’s gruff, “Jaskier!” waft through his rising hysteria. 

"C-Coming," he called, wincing as he rose up from the floor with far too much enthusiasm and practically flinging himself through the doorway. 

Geralt barely looked up at his less than smooth entrance, eyes focused on a spot at the foot of the bath.

“It’s bleeding again.”

Concern won the war over Jaskier’s arousal in that moment, propelling him across the confined room towards the fresh, if a little grubby, washcloths. 

“I told you not to overdo it, Geralt,” he lightly admonished as he set about gathering what he needed, keeping his eyes firmly on the task at hand, and not on the tantalisingly naked and wet skin mere feet from him. 

“Do not hen peck me,” the Witcher ground out through gritted teeth as Jaskier sunk to his knees beside the bath, gently pressing the wet washcloth against the wound, dabbing it gingerly. 

A groan ripped from Geralt’s throat at the contact, causing Jaskier’s cock to give a very ill-timed twitch in his smallclothes. He did his best to ignore the stirring in his loins as he dutifully cleaned the aggravated cut, grimacing at the angry, red skin fighting to close around the long, deep scratch. 

“Does it...am I...hurting you?” He asked softly, gaze catching on the side of Geralt’s face, surprised to find his eyes closed, his jaw and cheek oddly tense, even for him. 

“No. I—I’m fine.” 

His voice sounded...off. 

Slightly higher than usual, certainly more breathless, as if he had just finished an impressive feat of hand-to-hand combat against multiple opponents and was not instead soaking quietly in a small, albeit comfortable-looking bath. 

“You sure?” Jaskier asked, his touch now feather-light, “I can sto—”

“Don’t.” 

His voice was notably lower that time. 

“Don’t stop.”

Lower again.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Jaskier continued sweeping across his skin, wiping away the dried blood and the small droplets of fresh crimson.

“There,” he mumbled down at the muscular shoulder, feeling heat swirling up his body from his groin to the tips of his ears, “good as—whoops.” 

He watched, horrified, as he lost his grip on the cloth, it plopping down into the bath, giving a little splash as it landed right atop Geralt’s lap, bobbing in the water above where Jaskier knew his not inconsiderable cock lay beneath.

“Fuck.” 

It was more of a breath than a curse, but the sentiment still stood. Silently, both he and Geralt stared down at the cloth, neither moving a muscle. After a beat, Jaskier cleared his throat and, ignoring the panicked yelling clattering around in his brain, he gingerly reached down and plucked up the dripping fabric, careful not to submerge either it or his hand in the water too much. 

Congratulating himself on the deft hand-eye coordination he was not usually known for, Jaskier grew overconfident in his movements and accidentally brushed against Geralt's chest as he straightened back up, the skin of his wrist making contact with Geralt's firm, damp pectoral muscle, right over his heart, the tiny, dark hairs tickling Jaskier's rapidly quickening pulse. 

What escaped Geralt's throat could only be described as a whine. Like that of a broken, injured animal.

"S-Sorry," Jaskier stammered, eyes bulging as he felt all the blood in his body surge south at the unfamiliar noise falling from his friend's lips.

He attempted to bring his hand out the rest of the way, only for Geralt's long, thick fingers to clamp down on his wrist, catching it mid-air, wrapping around it tightly and squeezing.

A beat passed between them. 

It was as if all of the air had been sucked from the room as their eyes finally met. 

Sky blue and golden yellow. 

"Geralt, I…" 

The grip on his wrist clenched to a shade close to painful, but all Jaskier could register in that moment was how large and dark Geralt's pupils (not unlike how they look after he drinks that mysterious potion of his, albeit definitely sexier) had gotten. 

It could only have been temporary madness that compelled Jaskier to finish - 

"I really want to touch you."

Something passed over those molten honey, charcoal-tinged eyes, then. Something calculating and private, but searing all the same, and of which Jaskier was sure had never been directed his way before. 

Suddenly, the pressure on his wrist disappeared. Geralt let go, but had not gone far, his fingers hovering in the air. Jaskier broke eye contact, staring down at the strong, weathered hand, gaping as the gesture turned into an almost nonchalant half-wave, a silent, _‘Go on, then.’_

It was permission enough. 

With a shaky breath, he flexed his own hand, feeling his blood flow slowly return as his fingers made contact with Geralt's skin again, brushing feather-light against his chest hair, just inches from where his Witcher medallion kept catching the light and glinting in what would have been distracting under literally any other circumstance but this. 

Forcing himself to not look back to his friend's face, afraid of what could be written there, the bard focused instead on weaving an invisible path across the expanse of skin, allowing himself to finally map out the desires he had long kept a secret. 

A tiny hitch in breath caused Jaskier to shiver as his knuckle caught on Geralt's nipple. His back bowed, as if he were a marionette and Jaskier a puppet master pulling his strings skyward. 

Yet, the world didn’t come crashing down around them at that intimate touch. So, Jaskier took it as a sign and pressed harder, circling the pink, risened nub with his thumb and forefinger, rolling it and squeezing, ever so slightly. Geralt’s back bowed more intensely, his head tipping up to the ceiling as his hand gripped the edge of the bath with enough force that it began to creak under the strain. 

Jaskier’s jaw was practically on the floor. 

All that from just one touch. From him. His best friend. 

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, bells were ringing in ominous warning.

_It’s the spice, it’s the spice, it’s the—_

“G-Geralt,” he breathed, shaking his head to try and clear the fog of arousal, “do you really want—”

A strong hand clapped down atop his, squeezing, their palms lying flat over his heart that seemed faster than usual, a lot more erratic than the Witcher’s usual sluggish pace. 

“Jaskier,” he growled, their eyes meeting again, his practically flashing against the candlelight. 

“Because I…” Jaskier continued his half-asked question, words galloping from his lips like a stampede, “I want to touch you so bad, Geralt. And I-I know it’s probably only whatever we inhaled and it’s a very, very bad idea, but I—shit!” he yelped as he was suddenly hauled to his feet and yanked straight down into the bath. 

“Oof!” he exhaled loudly at the impact, his chest smacking against Geralt’s damp and naked one, the displaced water sloshing over the side of the bath and soaking the floor.

“Then touch me.” 

The rush of air against his ear from those words raked Jaskier’s entire body with a shiver, it not going unnoticed from his position glued chest to toe against Geralt. Their eyes locked, everything else ceasing to exist as he became aware of three very important things.

First, this was officially the closest he had ever been to Geralt of Rivia in all their years of friendship.

Second, the scent of the bathwater was a mix of lavender and something citrus, a surprising choice for the ultra-masculine Witcher.

And third, Geralt’s very hard cock was currently pressing into his abdomen. 

“Jaskier.” 

His voice had lost its edge. The coarse growl that usually accompanied those syllables now filed down to something softer, quieter, more questioning. Those enigmatic eyes told many stories. Expressed many thoughts. But Geralt said no more. Merely waited. Merely watched.

Jaskier tried not to squirm under his intense gaze, blinking rapidly. Before he could talk himself out of the truly fucking terrible idea, he reached down into the water and gripped his best friend’s cock tightly.

“Shit,” Geralt hissed, his eyes slipping closed, head tipping back to clunk heavily against the edge of the bath. 

Exhilarated from the response, Jaskier began pumping up and down the shaft underwater, more enthusiastic than anything skilled, but not caring in the slightest as Geralt was making all kinds of intoxicating sounds as if he didn’t care either. Shifting slightly, the bard maneuvered himself in the water to plant his knees either side of Geralt’s hips, the urge to get even closer to him overwhelming in its earnestness. 

“Geralt...Geralt can I…?” the words died in his throat as his eyes zeroed in on his friend’s lips, chapped and pale in the candlelight, but no less alluring.

As if reading his mind, Geralt’s eyes snapped open and suddenly, they were sharing the same breath, their mouths so close that if Jaskier were to heave a sigh, their lips would brush. 

“Geralt—”

The kiss was softer than he would have ever expected. Any time he had allowed himself to dwell on it, (usually in the dark, alone, with his best friend either out keeping watch over them or during their ‘on’ days, playing hide the sausage with Yennefer and 'off' days, ladies on the night) Jaskier had imagined kissing that mouth to be a shock to the system, a punch to the gut, a force to be reckoned with. 

But in reality, it was gentle. Quiet. A pressing of lips like a sip from a chalice, slow and inquiring. Searching. For what, he wasn’t sure, but yearned to find out. 

Swallowing down the whine that was clawing up his throat, Jaskier pressed that little bit harder, his free hand coming up to clamp down on Geralt’s toned, uninjured shoulder.

Geralt’s cock lay forgotten in his slack grip, neglected in favour of kissing, but he didn’t seem to mind as he wound an arm around the small of Jaskier’s back, pulling him even more flush against his chest, nipping at his bottom lip, more teasing than hurtful. 

Jaskier’s mouth fell open at that, deepening the kiss, their tongues meeting. The bard sighed into it, the word _‘finally’_ ringing dangerously soft in the back of his mind as Geralt’s other hand gripped the hair at the base of his skull, not exactly tugging, but a shade close enough that a bolt of arousal shot through him like an arrow. 

His hand tightened around Geralt’s cock in response and a choked moan that could have come from either or both of them, rang in his ears. 

It was then that the wood of the bath gave a moan of its own, alerting them to the fact that it was far too small for two fully-grown men to sit in, let alone grope each other with sexual fervour. But before Jaskier could pull away and maybe come back to his senses ahead of coming any other way, Geralt wrapped his other arm around his waist and stood up, pulling him up with an ease that had his stomach swooping.

The sound of the cascading water and their harried breaths broke through the fog of arousal engulfing them. Seconds ticked by as their gazes locked once more, Jaskier ever aware that he was standing, soaking wet from neck to feet in front of a very hard, very naked Geralt of Rivia with his very own painful erection desperate for relief. 

This was where they should stop. He knew that. Definitely knew that Geralt knew it too. But...he didn’t want to. And if the look his best friend was giving him as he climbed out of the bath was any indication, Geralt didn’t want to either. 

Almost as if in a trance, with a mesmer controlling his limbs, Jaskier felt himself mirror Geralt, gingerly stepping out of the bath, ignoring the sloshing mess they had made and privately pleased to have maintained his balance, not slipping comedically like some common court jester. 

Slowly, he straightened up, a gasp fighting to escape his throat as he saw that Geralt’s eyes had widened and darkened even further, looking every inch of the white wolf he had been dubbed so long ago.

The second kiss was both a surprise and an inevitability, really. It wasn’t the tentative, soft one of before, but something more hurried, desperate in a way that had Jaskier scrambling for purchase, his palms settling over the dip of Geralt’s collarbone as Geralt’s impossibly large hands gripped his hips. 

“Off, off,” he growled against Jaskier’s lips, clutching at his waterlogged shirt, ripping it clear off his shoulders, the tearing of the fabric harsh, but not halting his feverish pawing. 

As Jaskier’s skin was exposed to the cool air, he fought back another shiver, ignoring the flush of goosebumps, focussing instead on kicking off his destroyed shoes, (not caring about how wholly unpleasant they would no doubt be to walk in tomorrow) and promptly losing his balance, his feet sliding—

Except Geralt steadied him, pulling him upright and into his body in something very close to an embrace. A breath punched out of Jaskier’s chest at that, somehow more startled by it than the sensation of Geralt’s erect cock pressing against the soft skin of his stomach. Wordlessly, the two friends stared at one another, their gasps of frantic breath melding together as Geralt bent slightly at the knee to reach down and begin slipping off Jaskier’s sopping trousers. 

“These were a gift from a Lord’s very appreciative manservant, Geralt,” he faux-admonished as the wet fabric flopped to the floor, unable to stop blathering in an effort to cut the tension rising within the room, “they are an exotic blend of—well, I’m sure exactly, but, I _do know_ that—h-holy fuck!” 

Geralt’s hand was on his cock. 

Any and all noise died in Jaskier’s throat as he sucked in a desperate breath. 

“Huh. That’s all it takes,” Geralt grumbled wryly, almost to himself, twisting his wrist torturously, catching Jaskier by the hip as his knees buckled. 

“F-Fuck, Geralt,” he gasped, forehead smacking into the slope of Geralt’s neck, his nostrils assaulted with various aromas from the bath, but also the faint scent of something musky, earthy and inherently male that had him wanting to bite down on that skin. 

As Geralt tightened his grip on him, he gave into the urge and pressed his teeth down on his pulse point. Geralt’s grip on his hip clenched to the edge of bruising as he let out a low whine and suddenly, Jaskier found himself several feet off the floor. 

Instinctively, he wrapped his legs around Geralt’s waist, still in stunned silence, the Witcher in single-minded determination, marching them out of the room, one large hand squeezing his arse cheek, the other gripping the back of his neck. As they entered the bedroom, Geralt halted when his knees brushed the bed, he finally tilting Jaskier back far enough so that their gaze could meet. 

Time seemed to slow to a snail’s pace as they breathed in each others’ air. A silent question passed between them. 

Jaskier gave a tiny nod and promptly found himself unceremoniously dropped, bouncing off the worn mattress like a sack of potatoes. 

“Hey! Watch the—”

Geralt cut off his exclamation with his lips, kissing him like a starving man denied sustenance. 

Jaskier moaned into it, their tongues colliding roughly as the Witcher settled himself atop him, slotting easily between his legs. The bard would have flushed at finding himself splayed open, naked and wanting in front of his best friend of all people, but was far too occupied with grinding up into his crotch, their hard cocks shifting against each other in a pressure both overwhelming and nowhere near enough. 

“Want...want…” he gasped as Geralt broke the kiss to bite down his throat, leaving a trail of what would definitely be bruises in the morning, in his wake. 

“What do you want?” 

The words were muttered quietly into his skin, but to Jaskier they may as well have been yelled directly into his ear for how startling they were. 

Never, not in all the many (admittedly shameful) times he had allowed himself to fantasise this exact moment, did he ever think that the gruff yet impressive lover that was his best friend, would ever let him take the lead should they ever temporarily lose their minds and start ravishing each other. He had thought Geralt to be a man who knew what he wanted and went for it. Sure, he would be an attentive lover, Jaskier knew for certain that none who had been taken to the White Wolf's bed had ever complained, but he had never dreamed that his own wants would necessarily be called upon that blatantly in the heat of the moment. 

It was frightening. 

Daunting.

And so, unbelievably hot. 

“I want to ride you.” 

The words tumbled from his lips with absolutely no forethought whatsoever. Well, no immediate forethought to admit it then and there anyway, but that particular desire had been bouncing around in his brain for more than a few years if he was honest with himself. 

“Okay.” 

Jaskier tilted his head back to meet his eye, finding the dark pupils still large yet sincere. 

“O-Okay.” 

In a move ripped straighted from his most exhilarating, erotic dream, Geralt used his considerable strength to effortlessly flip them so Jaskier landed on top of him. 

Blinking, feeling as if his brain had been submerged in the water too long and not just his ruined garments, he took a moment to settle himself, knees falling to either side of Geralt’s waist and the palms of his hands pressing down onto his scarred chest. 

He indulged himself then, let his eyes wander, roam over the taut planes of muscle before catching on the flushed, hard cock that instantly had his mouth watering. Shuffling, (probably a little too frantically,) he slid down the bed, leaning over, listening for any sign of protest from Geralt. He almost purred like a kitten when instead, a hand raked through his hair, gripping the tresses tightly. 

The hand didn’t push or pull, didn’t force or demand. Instead a beat passed where Jaskier made up his own mind, leaning down and licking experimentally at the head of Geralt’s cock like he had dreamed of doing more than once over the years. 

Geralt hissed, his grip clenching, but still he let Jaskier lead, let him set his own pace. Jaskier grew bold, then. Began swirling his tongue and sucking on the head like a man parched, taking it further down bit by bit until fully sheathed, the ache in his jaw thrilling while he gripped the base with a tight fist, groaning as he finally got to taste the most intimate of skin, already addicted to the salty residue on the tip of his tongue. 

The room was awash with laboured breaths and debauched slurping sounds that would echo in Jaskier’s ears for years to come. Yet, just as he was about to build up to a faster rhythm, becoming enthralled with using his tongue to trace the thick vein that ran along root to tip, he felt a firm hand clasp his shoulder, nudging him up and off. 

Lamenting the loss of the weight of Geralt's cock on his tongue, he slowly sat up and marvelled instead at the crimson hue to Geralt’s chest, all the way up his neck to settle on his face. 

“I thought you...wanted to ride me.” 

It was not a question, and Jaskier heard it for what it was. A preventative measure. A warning. A _‘you keep that up and this will be over far too soon.’_

He did not let it go to his head. 

(Much.) 

He was well aware that his mouth wasn’t just talented at singing, after all.

Geralt’s tone was torn, conflicted, Jaskier could hear as much, but was too transfixed on the very physical evidence (laboured breaths, flushed skin,) of his ministrations to really reply. Instead, he tried and failed not to blush under Geralt’s watchful eyes that almost seemed to glow like embers in the semi-darkness. 

Floundering, he attempted to gain control of his wits. 

“I-um, oil…” he gestured at his own crotch, hoping his meaning wasn’t as lost as his voice was, “provisions for, um…”

His cheeks were alight with the fire of a thousand suns. 

Geralt’s slight smirk did not help matters.

_Really Jaskier, get a hold of yourself! You’ve done this more times than you can count, you are far from a blushing maiden!_

He followed as Geralt waved his hand to his right.

Jaskier blinked, eyes falling to the bedside where the Witcher’s enigmatic satchel lay slumped against the wall. 

“And why exactly would you have olive oil in—”

A quirk of a silver eyebrow cut him off. 

“Right. Right, shut up, Jaskier.” 

With that, he leaned down, warmth pooling in his stomach as Geralt held him steady by the hips so he wouldn’t fall, and retrieved the bag from off the floor, marvelling at finally being able to handle it.

After all these years.

He couldn’t say he ever dreamed up this exact scenario for being granted this wish. 

Or any other, more intimate wishes he may have had, for that matter.

“Okay, so what am I…” he gingerly unclasped the bag and fell silent, being met with lines of coloured vials of all different sizes.

Like a miniature, portable apothecary. 

“Wow,” he breathed, hands hovering hesitantly, in awe of all the probably dangerous liquids at his disposal. He couldn't help but wonder if one wrong move could cause his cock to turn green or grow spikes or something.

With what could have been an eye roll, (Jaskier was unsure as he was still mesmerised by the lotions and potions at his fingertips,) Geralt plucked a vial from near the front and pulled the satchel out of Jaskier’s grip, deftly depositing it back on the floor.

Well. That was that, then. 

Fleeting but satisfying.

A bit like tonight. 

Before Jaskier could dwell on that, Geralt leaned back up into his space and with a surprising gentleness (it seemed tonight was a night of constant revelations), kissed the edge of his jaw, coaxing him with one hand patting the back of his thigh, up onto his knees. 

With a shaky breath, Jaskier realised his intention, marvelling at how the Witcher had not only managed to open the vial one-handed, but had also somehow liberally coated his fingers. He managed not to bolt off the bed at the first brush of Geralt's thick middle finger circling his hole, but it was a near thing. 

“Breathe…” Geralt murmured in soft reassurance that Jaskier had only heard him reserve for Roach, Ciri and small children. His stomach flipped with a swirl of affection and nerves. 

“I’ll go slow.” 

His heart panged painfully in his chest.

He gasped as he felt hands roam along his stomach, hips, legs. Hands that had been told were expressly for mauling, stabbing, killing, caressed his body with a slow, determined gentleness that had Jaskier’s heart lodging in his throat. This was getting...too much. Too intimate. Too...slow...soft. 

“And what if I don’t want you to go slow? What if...I want fast and hard?”

_Good. Good. That’s better. That’s...that’s what I can handle. A hard fuck. Quick, satiating and ultimately meaningless._

_Because that’s what tonight is, isn’t it?_

Something passed over Geralt’s face, then. As unreadable as ever, but made Jaskier’s heart clench all the same. 

“Fast and hard it is, then.” 

With that, Jaskier found himself on his back, his legs spread wide and Geralt of Rivia’s face between his thighs, his mouth closing around his cock in a deep, deft move while a slick, thick finger began breaching his tight hole. 

“O-Oh, shit!” 

Geralt’s free hand clamped down on Jaskier’s hip, preventing him from bucking up into his mouth, pressing him into the mattress as his tongue lapped at the head of his cock before sliding lower, engulfing almost every inch of him in a wet heat.

“F-Fuck, Geralt!” 

“Hmm.” 

Never, not in all his years roaming these lands, did Julian Alfred ‘Jaskier’ Pankratz ever believe that he would hear what Geralt of Rivia’s signature ‘hmm’ sounded like while wrapped around his cock. What it felt like ricocheting against the skin of the most intimate part of him. 

And yet. 

Here they were. 

It was almost enough to make him come right then and there. 

But, as if sensing his impending eruption, Geralt suddenly gripped the base of his cock, squeezing roughly, mouth pulling off it with a soft ‘pop’. 

“Not yet,” he growled, low and commanding in a way that had Jaskier’s blood singing. 

Nodding feverishly, Jaskier watched as Geralt coated another finger with the oil, while keeping up his rhythm, pushing in and out of the tight ring of muscle, coming dangerously close to the little bundle of nerves that Jaskier yearned for him to touch. After a moment, he looked up and met his eyes in silent question. 

Jaskier continued nodding, bracing himself as another finger entered him, the burn intense, the rhythm building to something faster and harder. He groaned, throwing an arm over his face, unable to watch the delectable sight of his best friend torturing him any longer. 

“Geralt...Geralt, f-fuck me. _Please,_ ” he gasped out, not caring how desperate and wrecked he sounded as he beared down, pushing back against the fingers in a frantic attempt to locate that little nub himself. 

The fingers vanished. 

A troubling sense of emptiness filled the bard. 

His eyes snapped open, about to moan in protest when he caught sight of Geralt watching him silently, on his knees, hard cock standing to attention against his stomach, his eyes almost glowing in the dark as they regarded him with an expression he couldn’t name. 

Jaskier swallowed, barely daring to breathe. 

After a beat, whatever had clouded the Witcher’s face disappeared and Geralt seemed to come to a decision, reaching down to spread Jaskier’s thighs a little wider before guiding himself to rest against his hole. With one last look and one last nod, he pushed in slowly. 

Jaskier’s mouth dropped open in silent moan as the hard cock was engulfed in his heat, the feeling of a deep fullness causing his eyes to roll in the back of his head while Geralt sheathed himself inside him as far as he possibly could. 

He swore he could feel him in his gut.

There was a brief pause, where Geralt seemed to take a breath to steady himself. Just enough time for Jaskier to think _‘Holy shit this is actually happ—’_ before he pulled almost fully out only to slam back in with a force that knocked the air from Jaskier’s lungs. 

“Ger—oh my guh—yes! Fuck!” He shouted with bated breath as he was pushed further up the bed, reaching out to clutch at the rotten wooden rungs that served as a shoddy headboard, it rhythmically smacking against the wall with the force of Geralt fucking his brains out. 

It was hard and fast and everything Jaskier had ever dreamed of ever since he had spied his friend and Yennefer in the throes of passion all those years ago. Strong hands gripped his hips so tight that he knew there would be palm-shaped bruises there tomorrow that would likely last for days, but he didn’t care as he was too busy chasing the orgasm that was already beginning to build within him. 

His eyes crept open, heart hammering in his chest as he dared peer up, catching sight of the silver medallion dangling above him, glinting in the candlelight. He didn't allow himself to look any further up though, to catch those familiar eyes, knowing it would be too much for him to handle. Instead, he basked in the sounds of slapping skin and the smell of clean sweat, gaze trailing those tantalising chest muscles, mouth drawn to his nipple like a moth to flame. 

Geralt gave a half gasp, half grunt, his rhythm faltering a little as Jaskier leaned up, his mouth sucking in his hard, pink nub, tongue circling it as his teeth gave the slightest of brushes against it. 

Spurred on by the tiny noises escaping his friend's throat, Jaskier bit down on the nipple, rolling it between his teeth as his hand came up to play with the other, tweaking it similarly to how he would pluck the strings of his lute.

Geralt responded by slamming his cock roughly into Jaskier at a slightly higher angle, brushing that little bundle of nerves that had Jaskier’s brain exploding, a wave of pleasure crashing through him like the tide against rocks. 

“Yes, Geralt!" He panted, giving another teasing lick to his nipple, face still glued to his chest, "Fuck, r-right there! Right there!" 

He flopped back down onto the bed while Geralt grunted, his grip like a vice on his hips as he fucked that spot within Jaskier again and again and again, over and over until he was sobbing with pleasure, his orgasm a white, hot heat searing through him and pushing him over the edge. 

His back bowed almost completely off the bed as he came harder than he could ever remember, come spurting up his chest, a droplet landing on his collarbone. 

“Fuck,” he gasped in desperate breaths, eyes still tightly closed as he caught his breath, trying to think of the last time he had managed to come untouched and coming (heh) up empty. 

"That was—whoa!” he exclaimed, his entire world tipping on its axis as Geralt flipped them over so that Jaskier was on top again, Geralt’s hard cock still somehow buried inside him. 

Their eyes met for the first time since Geralt started fucking him. 

The look on his face was almost enough to get Jaskier hard again. 

“You wanted to ride me,” Geralt grunted up at him, almost smug, “so ride me.” 

Lamenting his rapidly softening cock but determined to fulfil his decade-long fantasy, Jaskier complied, rising up on his knees and dropping back down, bouncing experimentally. 

A small moan wrenched from the Witcher’s throat at that. 

So Jaskier did it again. 

And again. 

And again until he built up his own steady rhythm, fucking himself fast and hard on his friend’s cock. 

Geralt’s left hand surrendered his hip to trail up his chest, tweaking his nipple, much like Jaskier had done to him, while his right thumb brushed against his spent cock, teasingly. The bard threw his head back, groaning to the ceiling as his cock gave a pathetic spurt at that, a measly drop landing on Geralt’s abdomen only to be rubbed into his skin by the force of Jaskier’s cock as he rocked back and forth.

“Harder.” 

They locked eyes once more and Jaskier saw the challenge in those golden flecks. 

Pushing Geralt’s hand back onto his hip, Jaskier leaned down, pressing his own hands firmly onto Geralt’s pectoral muscles and began riding him earnestly, taking him in even deeper, his hole sucking him tightly into his heat. 

“F-Fuck,” the Witcher’s grumbled, grip clenching, his breaths quickening in a way that told Jaskier that he was close. 

Ignoring his hypersensitivity, Jaskier kept going, fucking himself on his best friend’s cock like a man impaled, bouncing up and down and squeezing as tight as he possibly could until he could feel Geralt’s legs shaking underneath him. 

“J-Jaskier.” 

A shiver wracked through him as his name fell from Geralt’s lips, broken and so, so aroused that he knew he’d hear it in the back of his mind for the rest of his life.

“I...I’m gonna—” he made an attempt to pull him off him, but Jaskier reached down and clasped his hand where it lay on his hip, shaking his head. 

“No, you can—I…” he gasped, a bead of sweat rolling down his neck, “you can let go, Geralt, I-I want you to.” 

As if those were the magic words he had been longing to hear, Geralt gasped, leaning up to kiss him as he came hard and deep inside Jaskier who bit his lip so roughly at the sensation that he could practically taste copper in his mouth. 

“H-Holy shit,” he stammered as he broke the kiss, leaning back a little. 

Geralt was sitting mostly upright, his chest heaving as he finally unclenched his hands on Jaskier’s hips, instead running them up and down his sides in an almost soothing way as if he were a spooked horse.

“Hmm.” 

Jaskier snorted. 

Sky gaze met honey. 

Jaskier's heart hammered against his ribcage as the whole world seemed to still.

He couldn't read those eyes that haunted his dreams for years. The same that watched him with just as much intensity, but their intent a mystery.

He couldn't take it anymore.

“What the fuck is in those spices?!” 

It was enough to cut the underlined tension, Geralt rolling his eyes in a familiar gesture he did understand as Jaskier began to gingerly shift in his lap, wincing a little as he rose up, Geralt’s softening cock slipping from him. 

Come trailed down the back of his thigh. 

Proof of Geralt's arousal and satisfaction.

He collapsed into the mussed sheets anyway, not caring about the mess. 

He actually found it incredibly hot and wanted to savour it for as long as possible. But nobody but him needed to know that. 

_I wonder if Geralt is a secret snuggl—_

Any ill-fated fantasy about some post-sex cuddling flew right out the window as Geralt swiftly sat up and threw his legs over the side of the bed, standing up and crossing the room. Trying to ignore the pang in his chest, the bard watched him gather some clothes from his belongings in the corner. 

“We wake at sunrise, Jaskier. Get some sleep.” 

With that, he walked back in towards the bath, closing the door with a snap behind him without a backwards glance. 

Jaskier blinked. 

He wasn’t surprised. Of course not. But that didn’t stop the wave of disappointment and...fuck, _hurt,_ rising from somewhere deep within him. 

Come rapidly drying on his chest and in his arse and thighs was not a pleasant feeling to try and sleep with. But even without that, he couldn’t poss— 

Something soft and damp landed on his hip. He didn’t have to turn to know that Geralt had gotten a fresh washcloth for him, laying it across him before gently closing the door again. Warmth bloomed in Jaskier’s stomach that he steadily ignored for the sake of his sanity. After dabbing at himself, cleaning himself up as best he could, he lay back down to try and chase sleep he knew would never come.

But he pretended. For over an hour until Geralt finally sank down on the bed beside him, careful to not brush up against him. His body was as stiff as a board, same as Geralt's as he feigned slumber, but actually listening for any minute change in breathing or shift in position that brought them closer together. But it never happened. So he kept pretending, for the many hours that followed until he felt Geralt vacate the bed at precisely sunrise. 

As night became day, he started to understand the truth. 

Jaskier was no fool, not in these matters anyway. 

He knew that this would never happen again. 

Their one night together would never be acknowledged. 

The stench in the room wasn’t just marred with sex, but with regret.

The cold, empty sheets beside him when he finally braved to open his eyes, was proof.

Jaskier washed and dressed somewhat in a trance, wincing slightly at the burn between his thighs as he walked. He didn't let his hands linger on the bruises he could feel at his hips or his eyes wander along the marks on his neck in the mirror. 

A pleasant surprise was his shoes, freshly dried out at the fire as he slipped on his only other pair of trousers. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his ones from last night also drying. 

His stomach swooped. 

He blamed hunger. 

Gathering up the rest of his belongings, the bard allowed himself one last look at the shoddy, small, incredibly uncomfortable bed that had been the fulfilment of his oldest, deepest fantasy. 

Worry churned in his gut. 

But also contentment. 

One night, even one tinged with regret, was better than none at all. 

And he knew their friendship would survive this. Had survived worse. 

It was the hope that bloomed alongside worry and contentment that was the hardest to shove down. 

_It meant nothing and that’s okay. It meant nothing and that’s okay. It meant nothing and that’s—_

“Ah, good morning, bard!” 

Jaskier’s head shot up, descending the last of the stairs of the inn only to find a familiar figure sitting at the bar, regarding him with an enigmatic smile as she sipped what he hoped was tea at this hour.

The herbalist. 

“Good morning, Miss...uh, apologies, I never did get your name,” he replied in what he hoped was a nonchalant tone but knew was probably not. 

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing in a way that told Jaskier that the bites on his neck were not going unnoticed. 

“Rough night?” 

Heat spread across his cheeks as he tried and failed to shove the daydream of just how rough his night had been out of his mind. 

The herbalist’s smile grew smug. 

“Oh yes, the spíosraí can have that effect.” 

Anger licked at Jaskier’s veins, he too tired and hungry and fucking heartbroken to rein it in. 

“Yes well, I don’t see how the ‘spíosraí’ should be allowed to be inflicted on the unsuspecting public. Forcing them into situations that could—”

“The spices merely enhance what already exists,” the herbalist cut across him, swirling a spoon in her cup, “they do not create desires. Or enforce. But rather gives them a chance to shine. Unearths them. Thrusts them into the light so they cannot hide anymore. Much like ale does, but with more of a pointed purpose. Did the Witcher not tell you this? He knows of their power,” she finished lightly with a far too knowing glint in her eye.

Jaskier gaped at her, mouth having dropped open somewhere around, 'do not create desires.' 

“Jaskier! Where are you?!” 

The sound of his name came from a distance, an annoyed, impatient distance that was rapidly getting closer.

He leapt into motion, the flush across his cheeks heating up further as he felt the old woman's gaze on him. 

"I better…" he gestured over his shoulder, stumbling backwards towards the door. 

"You take care, bard," the herbalist smiled, taking a deep drag from her pipe, purple smoke swirling around her head, her smile toothy and unnerving, "slán leat." 

"Uh, yeah," Jaskier nodded, giving a little half wave and repeating unsteadily, "slawn lat." 

With that he turned on his heel and practically bolted from the inn, eyes falling on the familiar sight of a silver-haired figure leading a large, brown horse, heads bowed together as if in private conversation.

Geralt. 

His best friend who talked to his horse and fucked Jaskier silly last night. 

Who fucked him silly and kissed him and caressed his skin because he wanted to, apparently. 

_Huh._

That hope in his chest bloomed a little brighter. 

Perhaps if he wrote him a song about it, maybe he could annoy Geralt into actually talking about last night and what it could possibly mean. 

A small smile spread across his face as Geralt finally looked his way, his gaze as unreadable as ever as Jaskier pulled his lute across his shoulder.

_Only one way to find out..._

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it! [ My Tumblr ](https://octoberobserver.tumblr.com) // [ More fics ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cortexikid)
> 
> ...and no, we never did find out what “sex spices” actually are lol. Any culinary experts out there to enlighten me? xD


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